The Skull and the Nightingale

by Michael Irwin

  It is absurd in me, of course, to feel put out by the failure of people and events to conform with my plans. Moreover, as Yardley has more than once pointed out to me, the experiments of the Royal Society itself often go amiss and yet by the very fact of doing so can provide valuable findings. In this case, however, I see no such potential gains; it seems simply that there were considerations in play of which I knew nothing. I still look for elucidation.

  I would therefore welcome an opportunity to talk with you, reviewing what has happened and why, and considering what should next be done. I would be greatly obliged if you could pay another visit to Fork Hill, perhaps arriving by Saturday next.

  I remain, &c.

  Chapter 26

  Of all my journeys to Fork Hill this proved the most exhausting, for my mind was ceaselessly active. At first I was plagued with recollections of Ogden. He had traveled these very roads not long previously, perhaps in this same coach, with no notion that he would be dead before the following dawn. Only when we were well clear of London was I able to banish those images and return to my own situation. I was soon suffused by anxious excitement. Within days, for better or worse, my prospects would be dramatically altered. Mr. Gilbert and I could not continue in our previous course because it had come to an end. We would need a fresh start, on fresh terms.

  I would first have to put the Ogden misadventure completely behind us; but I felt that this would not be difficult. Mr. Gilbert would know only what I myself had told him, and any questions he asked I could readily dispose of. The received version of what had taken place occupied so exactly the space of the actual events that by now I half believed it myself.

  The next challenge would be to decide upon a new project, a new way for me to earn my godfather’s money. An advantage I now held, I flattered myself, was that I had surely earned his confidence. Everything he had so far asked of me I had duly performed—save only in the case of Sarah, where the matter had been taken out of my hands. Our partnership being now firmly established, it was time—and more than time—for a parley about terms.

  As the coach bumped and swung through the autumnal countryside I spoke out boldly, within my own head, addressing my godfather with a frankness and underlying indignation which I certainly would not be able to display to his face:

  “Since we are to review the future, sir, I must ask whether you think it reasonable that I should be expected to continue on the same footing as before. For six months, as you have tacitly acknowledged, I have been a discreet, dutiful, and active agent on your behalf, responding to your secret wishes, feeding your curiosity with regular reports. Yet I have been living in the dark, with no hint as to what might come next.

  “You are after all my godfather, and have otherwise no living relatives. I think you would concede, sir, that, as the weeks have passed, our communications have taken on an increasingly confidential, even intimate, tone. We have become close. Is it not now time for that affinity to be publicly declared? I put the question with diffidence, because I could have hoped that you would be before me in this matter, but have I not earned the right to be recognized as your heir?”

  Unfortunately I could hear with equal clarity a cool rebuttal:

  “I have listened to your reproaches with some little surprise. I do not think I can convict myself of a lack of generosity toward you. Have I not paid for your education, for your travels abroad, and for your comfortable life in London? I have yet to learn that one who gives on this scale—even a godfather—incurs an obligation to give more. And is it not also the case that in March you accepted the present arrangement with some alacrity?”

  The debate was played out repeatedly in my mind, with various additions and shifts of emphasis. At one point I fell asleep and even in my dreams found myself angrily proclaiming: “You presume too far, sir. Do you know where you have led me?”

  I was woken painfully when the coach thumped into a deep rut, and my jaws were banged together. Unluckily I had bitten hard into the lump in my tongue, which had never fully healed. The coach came to a halt and had to be emptied before the horses could haul it clear of the miniature trench in which it had lodged. My fellow passengers saw me dabbing blood from my mouth and kindly commiserated with me. It struck me as curious that they should at once have noticed this slight physical hurt yet could not have guessed my mental turmoil through hour upon hour of the journey.

  When I met Mr. Gilbert the following morning, I saw at once that he was unwell. His face was flushed and his breathing shallow. He had just enough energy to dismiss, in a diminished voice, my attempt at sympathetic inquiry:

  “Since writing to you, I have contracted a slight fever. I hope it will prove no great inconvenience. But I must ask you to entertain yourself for a day or two.”

  That afternoon I took the now-familiar walk down to the farthest edge of the estate, where the surrounding woods, soon to be the property of my godfather, were already taking on their autumn colors. There were birds squawking loudly above, and squirrels frisking in the trees, nimble as Trinculo. It was a bright day, warm for October, but a lively breeze sprang intermittently to life, whirling yellow and orange leaves high into the air.

  I strode along as buoyant as the wind—the more so in contrast to the enfeebled old fellow I had seen that morning. Could this be the man whose secret desires had regulated my conduct and had even put me in danger of death, whether at the hands of Ogden or of the public executioner? He was ailing, he was dwindling. I was in the ascendancy and could at last bend him to my will.

  On my fourth evening at Fork Hill, greatly to my bewilderment and somewhat to my disgust, the familiar guests were yet again invited to dinner. Everything was against such a gathering. My godfather, whom I had scarcely seen since our interview, was plainly no better. I could tell, moreover, that his condition was hateful to him, at odds with his innate fastidiousness. He could not be himself, could not preside as he would wish, with his body hot, his face perspiring, and his throat sore. Yet here he was, insisting on playing host to a group of dullards, themselves variously damaged by the doings of the previous half year. It was impossible to believe that the occasion could give pleasure to any of the company.

  I contrived a few words with the local visitors before the meal began, but most of the words were mine. When I told the limping Yardley that I was glad to see him out and about again, he vouchsafed me no more than a nod. Hurlock harrumphed a greeting, while his wife, with lowered eyes, ventured a smile. I was luckier with Mrs. Quentin, who told me that after all she had been permitted to remain in the home she had shared with her husband. She thanked me for the kindness I had shown her, and I found myself pleased to be thought kind. Thorpe greeted me as affably as ever, and observed in a low voice that since he had last written to me the threatened hostilities seemed to have subsided.

  “But the conversation tonight is likely to be muted,” he added. “You and I may have to exert ourselves.”

  He proved to be right. The seven of us could barely keep silence at bay. Hurlock seemed morose and ill at ease, and his wife correspondingly subdued. Mrs. Quentin, although more composed than I had previously seen her, rarely ventured to open her mouth. Fortunately Mr. Thorpe spoke up cheerfully about parish matters, my godfather croaked out a few responses, and I managed many more. Hurlock had at last a little to say about the harvest—which had apparently been less than good—and in the course of subsequent exchanges remarked to me abruptly: “I see you have something wrong with your tongue, sir.” I explained that I had come to bite upon it in the course of my journey from London.

  “Stagecoaches are damnable!” cried Hurlock, as if glad to have an excuse for venting fury. “They swing and they bump. It’s a mercy you didn’t bite your tongue clean off.”

  Since he chuckled at his own hyperbole, I was able to smile and steer the conversation in a new direction, with a remark upon the fine autumn weather. Thorpe took up the topic, and Mrs. Hurloc
k unexpectedly observed that she had enjoyed taking walks across a carpet of golden leaves. For a second or third time that evening I caught a collusive glance from her, seeming to suggest that she was still warmly disposed toward me. Recent excitements having driven her from my mind, she was now of no more interest to me than a sack of potatoes, but I fatuously contrived a glint of collusive response for the sake of good manners. Fortunately no one suggested that we should sing.

  As on previous occasions, Yardley was at first taciturn, but found his voice after consuming two or three glasses of wine. By the time the ladies left the table he was jauntier than I had ever seen him, as he waxed eloquent about extremes in nature. He likened me, as a young man about town, to the swift, apparently a bird of boundless energy that does everything on the wing. By contrast, he said, he himself resembled the tortoise, looking to achieve longevity through slowness and stasis.

  “It has been claimed,” he said, “and I apologize to Mr. Thorpe for recalling so coarse a pronouncement—that the tortoise can devote an entire month to a single act of copulation. I confess that I myself have never enjoyed a pleasure so prolonged. ”

  “Human life could hardly accommodate such prowess,” I observed.

  My godfather had been roused from his exhaustion by Yardley’s remarks.

  “I believe I have heard you say,” he ventured huskily, “that there may be strange affinities between creatures seemingly antithetical.”

  Yardley assented, instancing a friendship he claimed to have observed between a bull and a goose who shared a field.

  “But,” said he, “there are antipathies equally as strange. Dr. Smollett remarks in his Travels that the silkworm is so delicately constituted that it may actually die if approached by a woman—heh! heh!—who is menstruating. You must excuse me, Vicar.”

  Mr. Gilbert nodded without a smile: “Perhaps one day we shall comprehend this commerce between bull and goose and woman and worm.”

  So feverish and fatigued had my godfather seemed during the dinner that I was hardly surprised when he took to his bed for the two following days. The weather having deteriorated, I stayed within doors, rehearsing again and again in my mind the conversation I hoped soon to be having. I was beginning to fear that Mr. Gilbert’s indisposition might postpone it indefinitely. It also occurred to me to wonder whether it might not carry him off altogether—but I concluded that this was not yet desirable, given the uncertainty of my prospects.

  By my seventh morning at Fork Hill, a strong wind was slapping rain against the windowpanes. To my surprise I received word that Mr. Gilbert was somewhat recovered and wished to speak with me in his study. I found him sitting in an armchair with a blanket around him and a large handkerchief in his hand. He looked weary, but his voice was clearer.

  “You have come a long way to visit me,” he said, “and it is time that we talked. Mr. Hurlock remarked upon your tongue. How is it?”

  “Somewhat better, sir, I thank you.”

  “How did you come to injure it?”

  I told him again about the jolting coach, not sure whether the lapse of recollection was a good or a bad omen for our interview.

  He heard my explanation absently, and asked if I had enjoyed the dinner.

  I remarked that I had been surprised to see Hurlock there.

  “A sign of subjection,” said my godfather. “A tame bear.”

  I waited for further prompting. Mr. Gilbert closed his eyes for a moment or two, before asking: “How, in your opinion, did Mrs. Ogden feel toward her husband?”

  Taken by surprise, I paused to consider.

  “I would surmise that she had a measure of respect for him. And there was gratitude—certainly gratitude. But little warmth, little fondness.”

  “Did they quarrel, do you suppose?”

  “I cannot say with any certainty, but I would think not. He was a taciturn fellow.”

  That damned lump on my tongue made it difficult for me to say “taciturn.” I was wondering where these questions might be leading, but it seemed that they were to lead nowhere. My godfather clapped his handkerchief to his face as a sudden fit of coughing took his breath away. When he recovered and could speak again, it was on a fresh theme.

  “Your letters have been empty of incident since those unfortunate events. How have you been passing the time?”

  I explained that I had thought it advisable to remain inconspicuous, but that I would shortly be looking for a fresh start, for a new adventure of some kind.

  “You have not seen Miss Brindley again?”

  “I have not. I believe that she has passed to the patronage of my friend Mr. Horn.”

  “And you still have no thought of resuming your pursuit of Mrs. Ogden.”

  “None at all, sir.”

  “I understand you. I understand you.”

  Clearing his throat painfully, the old invalid said: “It would be interesting to know what passed between her and her husband on that morning—on that last morning.”

  “Perhaps nothing, sir. He left very early.”

  My godfather nodded, and then closed his eyes again, as though he would gladly have dozed. He roused himself to say:

  “There is one aspect of this affair that seems not to have come to public attention.”

  I was at once alert. “And what is that?”

  “Mr. Ogden wrote to Lord Downs that he was returning to London for pressing domestic reasons.”

  I kept my voice steady: “The word ‘domestic’ did not, I think, appear in the newspaper reports.”

  “Exactly.” Mr. Gilbert huddled the blanket around himself and sat up. “It was not quoted because although Ogden wrote the word, he then scored it through. Lord Downs showed me the original. The wording had been plain: ‘ . . . for pressing domestic reasons.’ ”

  Thinking frenziedly, I managed a response:

  “Given that circumstance, it seems remarkable that Mr. Ogden went to his office rather than to his house.”

  “But it appears that in his office he did and said nothing. When Mr. Gow spoke to him, he simply walked past him.”

  “I believe Mr. Ogden was never talkative.”

  My godfather discharged a great sneeze into his handkerchief. I think that no man could have hated more the indignity of having the cavities of his skull filled with mucus. He sat for some moments breathing heavily before making an effort to speak:

  “Let us suppose that his wife had said something to give him cause for suspicion . . . Might he not have chosen to lurk in his office before going on to Margaret Street to have an eye to her doings?”

  I met the challenge directly: “Are you suggesting that he might have suspected me?”

  “Not you, perhaps. But a lover.”

  “Could he have thought that this lover would invade Mrs. Kinsey’s house? Or that his wife would creep out?”

  “It sounds improbable. Yet it is said that jealous men may harbor the most unlikely suspicions. And of course in this case the suspicion would have been justified.”

  Increasingly uncomfortable, I made an effort to speak thoughtfully: “But this suggestion implies an unlikely circumstance: the poor wretch felt confident enough to take the coach, yet was sufficiently concerned to change his mind on the journey.”

  Mr. Gilbert made to reply, but was seized by a fit of coughing which left him scarlet in the face. As he recovered he wiped his eyes and sank back into his chair.

  “I find myself a little languid,” he said. “I must ring for some brandy. Will you take some yourself ?”

  “Gladly.”

  I was by now in full need of the brandy, but I welcomed equally the interruption as the servant was summoned and the errand carried out. It gave me a few moments to collect my thoughts. By the time we were settled again, I was ready to take the initiative:

  “If Ogden did return to spy on his la
dy, he must have come too late or given up too soon. I saw no sign of him in Margaret Street.”

  My godfather reached out from his blanket to some papers on his desk and produced what I recognized as a letter I had sent him. It disturbed me to see it here, produced as though in evidence. Mr. Gilbert donned spectacles to consult it.

  “You were there at midnight?”

  “Exactly at midnight.”

  “But you did not stay long?”

  “By no means. Having read Mrs. Ogden’s note, I went briskly home.”

  “Was there light enough to read?”

  “There was not. It was a wretched night.”

  “And you had a torn paper with writing smudged by the rain?”

  “Exactly so. I had to walk some little distance before I could find a lamp bright enough to tell me the bad news.”

  It was as though I were on trial in a court of law. I sipped some brandy to help me keep up appearances. Fortunately Mr. Gilbert seemed to weary of the topic, shaking his head and lapsing into silence.

  I felt a sudden surge of anger. Here was this old wretch assuming authority, and asking impudent questions, as though a detached inquirer, when he had been the one to lure me into danger. I had suffered weeks of fear in his service yet now found myself seemingly distrusted and reproached. Before I had time to think, I found myself blurting:

  “I cannot but wonder what the promised reward would have been had I concluded the business with Mrs. Ogden.”

  I felt a qualm even before my sentence was concluded. This was the first time I had ever presumed to question my godfather. There was astonished hostility in his face as he stared at me with bloodshot eyes, appraising my words.

  At last he said: “You have declared that possibility closed.”

  Uncertain whether to advance or to retreat, I said: “Indeed.”

  “Then that situation no longer obtains and is no longer to be discussed.”

  Hoarse though Mr. Gilbert was, his statement was a challenge. I held his gaze and said nothing, still hot with rage, sucking on the lump in my mouth. One misplaced word and we would be quarreling, perhaps fatally. My godfather drank some brandy and paused to feel its effects before, in a gentler voice, offering a fresh start.